


On the Wing

by katesfolly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, I Don't Even Know, John has wings, One Shot, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Slash Goggles, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:38:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katesfolly/pseuds/katesfolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The metal door bangs against the brick like a shotgun. Through the half-dark of a damp, foggy London night John can see Sherlock wrestling with their suspect, right up against the damned edge of the roof, right up there, the two of them grunting and straining.  For a microsecond John's frozen, all the air evacuated from his lungs in one great whoosh, then he’s moving, and Sherlock is kicking the man, and they’re both losing their balance, and their grip on each other. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Wing

The metal door bangs against the brick like a shotgun. Through the half-dark of a damp, foggy London night John can see Sherlock wrestling with their suspect, right up against the damned edge of the roof, right up there, the two of them grunting and straining. For a microsecond John’s frozen, all the air evacuated from his lungs in one great whoosh, then John's moving, and Sherlock is kicking the man, and they’re both losing their balance, and their grip on each other. Later John barely remembers the running, but he remembers with remarkable detail the rough brush of Sherlock’s long coat against his outstretched fingers. They go over, and there’s no moment of decision, John rips his jumper and undershirt over his head as he hauls himself up and jumps. After Sherlock. They are eighteen stories up and the other guy is on his own.

John’s never tried to do this in the air, or while he’s bloody terrified, but he closes his eyes and desperately tries to ignore the freezing-cold air rushing by him, and after a moment he can feel the gentle parting of the skin flaps on his back, over his shoulder blades, and the stretching of disused muscles as his wings unfold. He opens his eyes and keeps them on Sherlock and sweeps his wings back behind him, heart in his throat. He’s really, really never tried to do this, has no idea if he’ll even be able to get his hands on Sherlock, but he knows he has to try. He pumps once, twice with his wings, willing himself to go faster than gravity is carrying Sherlock, and then he is there, wrapping all four limbs around a wide eyed and for once speechless Sherlock Holmes, who clings right back.

Whispering “Hold on,” is all John can do, all his concentration is on the strain of muscle and bone as he spreads his wings wide, trying to turn, slow their fall, and as a distant third priority, hopefully stay out of fucking CCTV range, because God knows he doesn’t want to talk to Mycroft about this.

The air is moving fast around them, crisp against exposed skin, and John’s concentrating hard enough he barely notices the rasp of Sherlock’s clothing against his bare torso. Still, it’s more like paragliding than flight, and John’s unspeakably relieved to see a building just two doors down with a sedate, flat roof only three stories off the ground.

The come down hard, Sherlock on his back and John on top of him, breath knocked out of both of them. John did manage to aim for Sherlock’s rear coming down first, instead of his head, but that was all he managed.

John’s not moving for a week. He’s dizzy and breathless, even though his lungs are working again, and oxygen is flowing, and the allover ache is beginning to make itself known, and worry is rising like a great whale surfacing under his diaphragm. Sherlock now knows something John never wanted anyone to know. His biggest secret—honestly, his only secret, because what else could he keep from the man?—is out.

And he really shouldn’t be laying on Sherlock. Especially not half-naked. But he can’t get up. And he can’t roll over, because his wings are in the way, partially folded from the landing and quivering with the adrenalin that’s still zapping around his body, making him nauseous and shaky. And he can’t stop clinging to Sherlock, because his heart’s still in his throat. It’s probably okay, because Sherlock hasn’t stopped clinging to him either.

“Holy fuck. Jesus. Sherlock.”

Sherlock just keeps panting. His arms and legs are shaking. Or maybe John’s are.

John finally raises his head, concerned Sherlock hit his head when they landed. Sherlock’s eyes go, if possible, even wider when he sees John’s face.

“Oh God,” John raises a hand, and yep, sure enough, the ridges of tiny feathers at the outsides of his brows are out too, clear to his temples, blending with his sandy hair and probably making him look like a demented owl or something. He wishes he were somewhere else, suddenly and acutely. He pushes and tugs until he can sit back to his haunches, hands on his knees. Sherlock scuttles back a couple of feet, still on his arse but now propped on his arms too as he takes in the sight of John, in his jeans and boots and a silver chain around his neck and nothing else, his feathers shifting gently as he settles his wings automatically into rest position. John’s head hangs between his shoulders, hiding the weariness and embarrassment warring on his face. Because Sherlock has done something ill-advised that almost got him killed (again), and that should be the thing that matters, not the…loveliness of his plumage for sweet Christ’s sake. In nature, John knows, there are birds of all colors, plumage like sunsets and jewels and jungle rainstorms. But on his own wings there are only the tawny shades of a single brown, from umber through leaf-litter and fawn and desert tan into a barely-tinted cream, all sedately lined except for a small crescent the diameter of a dinner plate near the center of his back, where his wings are barred, the lightest cream and dark chocolate alternating in stripes. Even in this, John thinks, he is ordinary.

“Extraordinary,” Sherlock breathes. “Entirely outside what is ordinary.” His eyes come back to John’s.

Sirens sound in the distance.

John shifts. “Lestrade will be looking for us.”

“I—“ Sherlock swipes a hand over his mouth. “Thank you.”

“I’m going to need…a minute.”

“And a shirt.” Sherlock’s generous mouth twists, and John’s chest jumps a little with an aborted giggle. His skin feels hot enough to fry eggs, despite the chill in the air. Shock. It’s just shock.

“Yes, that too.” It’s not really funny. Suddenly they’re laughing like maniacs. It ripples through them, high and hysterical and grounding. They’ve survived. Again. Together. No thanks to Sherlock being an idiot.

“Oh, god, I have to go, I have to get my jumper off the building.” John wipes tears from his eyes.

“Already did,” Sherlock squeaks, an octave higher than usual. John dissolves in giggles again.

“Oh, stop, I’m. Stop, I’m going to get arrested, I have to go.”

John staggers up to his feet and then to the edge of the building, taking a look around. It’s a commercial area; most of the lights are off, and traffic is light. Surely he’ll get away with it. He flexes his wings experimentally (sore, but not too sore) and hears a gasp from behind him. Sherlock’s eyes are dark when they meet his, thrumming with the thrill of new information. John just smiles, and spreads his wings, and jumps.

When John emerges, ten minutes later, from behind the building next to the one where the suspect met his doom, he’s peeved. Lestrade watches him stomp their way, getting right up next to Sherlock where he sits in the back of the ambulance, an ice pack on his cheekbone. “Seriously, Sherlock? You can’t text me the right address? I have to follow the fucking EMTs to crime scenes now?” John yanks the ice pack off, none too gently, to inspect the damage himself. “What the hell did you do?”

“Just another day in paradise, eh, John?” Lestrade smirks. 

John runs an exasperated hand through his hair and turns his head away from Sherlock when he says to Lestrade, “That’s one way to put it.” 

John’s thumb is pushing the long hair behind his ear out of the way. He looks rumpled and damp and worn and very, very ordinary in the harsh light of the ambulance, and there is a tiny tattoo, brown and subtle, of three feathers splayed behind his ear.

**Author's Note:**

> I blame it on pre-holiday delirium. Cool? Cool.


End file.
